CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“It’s their routine,” said Trevon, standing across the street from the Catfish Shack. “They come out here to eat, have a few beers, and get loose before a game.”

“Shame for them that we know the owners,” smirked Angel. “Stay out of sight, Trevon. We’re serious. The staff is going to start heading out back. Once they’re out of the building, we’ll be going in. We’re going to film and record the whole thing so that the news will know why this happened.”

“I trust y’all,” he said, nodding. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

Angel, Pork, Kegger, Otto, Wilson, Jean, Gabe, Rafe, and Cruz were dressed entirely in black, including black gloves and beanies on their heads. They had black grease paint on their faces and gas masks tucked into the backs of their trousers.

Gabe walked over to a large moving truck, nodding at the driver.

“You ready, Bubba?” he asked the driver.

“Always ready, cousin,” he smirked. “I don’t ‘dem fellas much, so we’re happy to hold ‘em for ‘ya for a while. Don’t worry. They won’t get nowhere fast.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” laughed Gabe at his cousins. He turned to the others and nodded. “Signal the staff.”

Jean dialed the number, telling the person who answered to exit out the back doors. They would be getting a very, very large tip for missing out on some diners for the next few hours.

They watched from across the street as the staff stepped outside, waving at them as they took a seat beneath the trees in the back parking lot. The defensive players were acting like complete animals, tossing food at one another and making a huge mess.

“Need some help?”

“Shit!”

“Asshole!”

“Fucking dick!” frowned Jean. “Trak, you’re a real jerk.”

“I know,” he smiled. “I’ll start this dance. You guys follow.”

Trak walked into the diner, turning to give a smirk at the other men as they slowly followed. Opening the door, the players all turned to see who was interfering with their pre-game dinner.

“Place is closed, buddy,” said one of the men.

“I’m not your buddy,” said Trak. Covered in black, his knives gleaming in the light of the diner, he almost hoped one of them would try something. He got his wish. A huge man stood from his seat, cracking his knuckles in an obnoxious show of superiority. Trak only grinned.

“Boy doesn’t know who he’s up against, does he, Danny?” laughed another man.

The bell above the door rang again. Jean, Kegger, and Rafe walked in. A few moments later, the rest followed. The man stood still at the table, counting heads. His cocky behavior said that he believed they could take the men in black.

Shoving his chair backwards, he decided to charge Trak like a raging bull. Trak only shook his head, easily moving out of the way.

“You’re slow,” he said calmly.

“Fuck you!” He charged him again, hoping to tackle him, but the man evaded his touch once again.

“You’re fat and slow,” said Trak.

The man couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight years old, but he’d let his desire for money overshadow his desire to be in shape and play good, clean football. When he charged Trak for a third time, he not only maneuvered out of his way but climbed his back, gripping his neck in a solid hold.

Falling to his knees, the other players watched in horror, starting to move forward.

“Uh, uh, uh,” grinned Cruz. He jammed a needle in the neck of the man, and he dropped, unable to move.

“What the fuck?” said another man. “Who are you guys?”

“Oh, we’re with the office of the Sandman, and you’ve been deemed bad boys. Taking money to blow games, allowing your team to lose,” said Jean, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Wide-eyed and now ready to run, the men shifted from one foot to another. But it was too late. The men in black put their masks on, watching as the others struggled to keep their eyes open and breathe. When the last man dropped, they opened the doors. Jean looked at the man at Trak’s feet.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“No. I wanted to, but Mama Irene told me I couldn’t. She said it was too close to Christmas, and I had to let him go.”

“Alright,” laughed Jean. “Let’s load these assholes into the truck. They’re taking a little vacation out on a barge in the middle of the bayou. Even if they were to get by the cousins, they won’t find their way home by themselves.”